“Thanks, but I just came from Wilder’s place. Quinn was there and we lit a farewell joint. Acapulco Red. Very mellow.” He chuckled. “I had no idea Quinn was such a pussy.”
“Got a bit weepy, did he?”
“Like a little girl.”
Ben said, “That’s my job,” and padded into the bedroom, hoping Ray couldn’t hear his shattered sobs.
* * *
Breaking the oppressive silence in the elevator, Ben said, “Turns out Roxanne’s grandmother is Melanie Anderson.” He hadn’t meant to say anything about it, judging this a poor time to be talking about his own life, but it just popped out. “Remember her?”
“Remember her,” Ray said, bugging those blue eyes. “How could I forget? You pissed and moaned about that girl for a decade after she dumped you. That year we shared the apartment on Lisgar Street? I wanted to hold a pillow over your face while you slept. Melanie this, Melanie that.” He grinned through the pain he was clearly suffering. “She still married?”
“Her husband passed.”
“So you gonna try and hook up with her again?”
Since seeing Melanie, he’d been thinking of little else. But he said, “A bit late for that, don’t you think?”
Quick as a Ninja, Ray punched him on the shoulder, the blow surprisingly sharp given the man’s condition. Ben shot him a dirty look, but he knew what the jab was for. Since grade school it had signified BULLSHIT, and when fairly administered, never provoked retaliation.
Ray said, “Stings, don’t it,” and Ben nodded.
The elevator stopped and the men got out, bearing left now through the lobby to the glass-covered walkway leading to the Euthanasia Foundation.
As they walked, Ray said, “I know you’re the doctor and I’m just the paint-and-wallpaper guy, but for once in your life you need to listen to me, because I only have time to say this once. It is never too late to bring love into your life. I learned that firsthand with my Bella. And I know you’re capable of it, because I know you love me.”
Ray caught him by the arm and they stopped to face each other in the walkway, the sky above a basin of stars, a thin rind of moon snagged in the treetops out there.
Releasing Ben’s arm, Ray said, “The six years I had with Bella, if that had been the sum total of my time here on Earth, it would’ve been enough. I mean that. So if your heart soared when you saw her, if you’ve been thinking of nothing else since that moment—” Ray slammed him on the shoulder again, harder this time. “—then go for it, you dim bulb. Because if you don’t, I’ll come back and haunt your ass for the rest of your miserable life. Understood?”
“Yeah, I get it. And thanks, man. Thanks a lot.”
Ray said, “Grow some balls,” and they started walking again.
Rubbing his shoulder now, Ben said, “That’s gonna leave a mark.”
“It was supposed to. Let it serve as a reminder.”
And in the sad, exhilarating, and often confusing weeks ahead, it did exactly that.
* * *
Ray said, “So what’s the plan?”
“There is no plan. We play it by ear.”
“What if we get stopped by security?”
“You kick him in the balls and I shoot him with his own gun.”
“Come on, man.”
“You’re just going to have to trust me, okay? There’ll likely be a guard at the main entrance, but if it’s the guy I think it’ll be, there’s a reasonable chance he’ll let me take you on a tour of the place. I looked after his mother years ago and he still thinks he owes me.”
“A tour. At this hour?”
“I said a reasonable chance.”
“And if it’s not him?”
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Just stay behind me and be quiet.”
“Yes, Dad.”
The walkway opened onto the ground floor of the Foundation in a broad hallway that encircled the atrium. The men peeked around the corner to see a security guard seated at a table by the main doors, a portly guy hunched over a paperback in the glow of a pot light.
Keeping his voice down, Ray said, “That your guy?”
Ben shook his head. “Never seen him before. Let’s head back.”
They backtracked to the service entrance of the admin building, down a set of metal steps to a delivery bay that gave onto an adjacent parking lot. Moving briskly in the night air, Ben said, “This way,” and turned left onto a lockstone path lit at intervals by gothic-looking solar lamps.
Trailing him, Ray said, “Slow down, man. You’re gonna give me a heart attack before we can get this done.”
But Ben didn’t hear him. He was functioning purely on hindbrain now, the front of his mind filled with white noise.
The path led to the rear of the Foundation, bringing the men around the curving hip of the building to a staff entrance with a dimly-lit keypad. Ben bent to squint at the numbers, fingers trembling as he punched in a four-digit code he hadn’t used in a decade. The keypad beeped once, clicked—and a red LED lit up, the digital display flashing the word ERROR in pale blue characters.
Ben said, “Shit,” and tried again, slowly this time, Ray hovering behind him now, the man’s labored breathing the only sound.
This time when the damn thing beeped, the green LED flashed and Ben heard the locking mechanism release.
He opened the door and pulled Ray inside, saying, “I knew the bastards’d be too lazy to terminate my access code.” He pointed at the ceiling. “Keep your head down. Security cameras.”
Chuckling, Ray said, “I think we’re beyond that mattering much anymore,” and Ben chuckled too, his tension abating in the face of this simple truth.
He paused now to embrace his friend—fiercely, passionately, as if in holding onto the man he was holding onto life itself—then released him, saying, “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
“Yeah,” Ray said, “Fuck ’em.”
And as if they’d rehearsed it, both men faced the camera and flipped it the bird, twirling in tight little hip-thrusting circles before taking off down the hall.
* * *
Wilf Birmingham, head of security for the nightshift, turned from the card game on his iPad to the bank of monitors, amused to see two old dudes staring up at him on camera 83, flipping him the bird in a silent pirouette.
Then he recognized Dr. Hunter.
“What the…?”
He checked his watch—after curfew—then radioed Ike Booth, his man at the desk in the Euthanasia Foundation, telling him to get his ass around to the parking lot entrance.
* * *
Ben said, “We can’t stop them from getting into the building, but we can keep them out of the suite. For a while, at least.”
They came out of the hallway into the circular atrium with its domed ceiling made of glass. The building itself was only three stories, but the effect of the dome was breathtaking, and Ray paused to gaze up at it. That crescent moon hung dead-center up there now, and Ray appeared almost spectral in its light.
In the face of what they were about to do, Ben had to look away. He said, “Ray, come on,” and headed for the curving staircase. “The suites are on the second floor.”
The men hurried up the marble staircase now, winded from their exertions and the unremitting tension, footfalls echoing in the deceptive opulence of the place. Right or wrong, this was a house of death, and for the first time since he’d championed its creation, Ben shuddered within its palatial walls.
As they made the landing, Ben heard a door open down below followed by a raised voice: “Show yourselves, gentlemen!”
Breathless now, he bent to the keypad at the first suite they came to and punched in the code. Seizing Ray’s arm, he said, “In here,” and pushed the door open, guiding his friend inside.
Now the door was sealed and a series of baseboard lights came on, casting a pale glow. Ben strode to the technician’s console, picked up a cannonball-size sculpture in bronze of a grinning Buddha, and
used it to smash the keypad by the door. “Won’t keep them out forever,” he said, “but it’ll sure as hell slow them down.”
Replacing the Buddha on the console, Ben said, “Privacy laws prohibited cameras up here, so it’ll take them a while to sort out which suite we’re in, and another good while to get inside.”
Nodding, Ray slung an arm around Ben’s shoulders and they stood in silence for a beat, gazing through a glass panel into the unlit theater, the thin wash of light from the control room picking up random metallic gleams in there.
Now Ben said, “Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?”
“As sure as I’ve ever been about anything,” Ray said. “I know you don’t believe in God or Heaven or any of the other lofty concepts they terrified us with in Catholic school. And while I’m with you on most of it, I do believe in a higher power, some balancing force holding it all together. The way I see it, we’re all made of the same stuff. And for every one of us, there comes a time when we have to go back into the soup. Think of it as recycling. I’ve had my run. In a long life, I’ve had one great friend—quit grinning, you jackass; you thought I meant you?” Ben laughed. “And one great woman. And now I’m ready to tip this old carcass into the cosmic blue bin. But I want to do it on my own terms, with dignity—without any more pain—and with my best friend at the helm. Is that too much to ask?”
With tears in his eyes, Ben agreed it wasn’t. He said, “Okay, buddy,” and opened the theater door. “Strange as it may sound under the circumstances, I think you’re going to enjoy this.”
* * *
The euthanasia theater itself—circular, like the atrium—was surprisingly spacious, and Ray felt only the slightest apprehension as Ben locked the door and a series of muted baseboard lights came on, as they had in the outer chamber. A comfy-looking bed stood in the center of the room, and the bare walls were a soothing sand color. Not much else in here besides that, just an adjustable IV pole suspended from the ceiling, and a single tan wingchair matching the walls.
Before Ben could tell him to, Ray lay down on the bed, the memory-foam molding to his every contour. Settling in, he said, “God damn. If I could afford a mattress like this, I bet I could sleep at night.” He batted his eyes at Ben now, a clown to the end. “Wanna climb aboard for one last romp?”
Ben said, “You couldn’t handle it,” and they laughed like the boys they’d once been.
After a quiet moment, Ben said, “Remember the film Soylent Green?”
“Charlton Heston, right? ‘Soylent Green is people!’”
Ben said, “Exactly,” and typed something on a recessed keyboard. “Well, I stole the idea for the suites from that movie. Check this out.”
At first, nothing happened. Then the curving walls began to glow a pale, shimmering blue, like shallow seawater under a tropical sun.
Ben said, “Remember Heston’s roommate? The old guy, Sol Roth?”
“Yeah, played by Edward G. Robinson.”
“Right. Remember the scene—?”
“Right. Everyone lining up at that huge euthanasia facility to end their lives of poverty and starvation. And Heston’s character, Detective…”
“Thorn.”
“Yeah, Detective Thorn, catches up to the old man before he goes off to sleep, and the room is like an iMax theater.”
And even as he said it, the walls came alive, a low bass rumble resolving into the chant of a crowd…hippies, thousands of them, shirtless and tan, dancing artlessly with flowers in their hair, eyelids heavy with peace and illicit substances. Ray said, “Woodstock,” just as the wraparound scene cut to the moonlit stage and a stoned Alvin Lee said into the mic, “Here’s a little thing called “I’m Goin’ Home” by Helicopter,” and broke into one of Ray’s favorite performances.
“Jesus,” Ray said, the experience immersive, like being there, only without the mud and the mosquitos and the unwashed neighbors. “Jesus.”
Ben said, “Dig it, my friend,” and stuck an IV needle into the back of Ray’s hand. “I’ll be right back.”
* * *
Ike Booth radioed his boss from the second floor of the Euthanasia Foundation—what the residents called Terminal House or sometimes the Euth Club—and told him there was no sign of the two old men. Out of breath, he said, “I’ve been all through the building. It’s like they disappeared.”
Ike hated this place. It gave him the creeps. His mother always said he had a touch of the shine, and since they’d saddled him with this sector on permanent nights, he’d come to believe her. There were ghosts everywhere in here, lurking just out of sight.
His boss said over the radio, “Well, they’re in there somewhere, Booth, because I haven’t seen them come out. I want you to open every door, look in every closet, under every desk and in every shitter until you find them. You hear? Because if I have to call the CEO about this—at this time of night—there’s going to be hell to pay and it’s going to come out of your hide.”
Ike said, “Copy that,” and signed off. There were five suites up here, and he started with the one closest to him—The Trudeau Suite—thinking, Why in the name of Christ would anyone want one of these Nazi extermination chambers named after them?
He punched in the code with a shaky finger, wishing he’d called in sick like he’d almost done, the chili his wife had served him for dinner bloating him up like a damn beach ball.
He entered the suite and those muted baseboard lights came on, raising stealthy shadows that seemed to caper. He knew the effect was supposed to be calming, but it gave him the willies.
He said, “Anyone in here?” and groped around for the main light switch.
* * *
Ben pecked at the keyboard in the control room, calculating an infusion rate for the medications he’d be delivering to Ray intravenously. The potent pharmaceuticals would arrive in a prescribed sequence, the intent being to provide the men with adequate time to say goodbye; then, gradually, to ease Ray into a peaceful slumber from which he would never awaken. It was a tried-and-true formula Ben had created over a decade ago, and in the interim no one had seen any reason to change it.
The first infusion, which Ben commenced now, was a combination of meds used routinely in anesthesia: Propofol—nicknamed Milk of Amnesia due to its milky color and hypnotic qualities—and Remifentanil, a synthetic narcotic so potent that in the anesthetic setting it had to be administered in fractions of a milligram per kilogram. Over the next fifteen minutes, the infusion rate would gradually increase, amplifying the effect from a barely perceptible sense of serenity to the best and cleanest high Ray had ever experienced. From there, over the course of the subsequent few minutes, his eyelids would grow heavy and he’d drift off to sleep. At this point, based on physiological signals detected by sensors embedded in the mattress, a powerful paralyzing agent would be added to the mix, and within seconds Ray would stop breathing. The infusion would continue until the occurrence of clinical death, a state again determined by embedded sensors.
That was the science of the thing.
Now, for the first time as a friend instead of a clinician, Ben had to confront the finality of it head on.
He sat in the wingchair next to the bed and took Ray’s hand, Ten Years After still ripping it up at Woodstock.
* * *
Ray startled at his friend’s touch, already aware of the drugs coursing through him in a gentle tide. Watching Lee play that big red Gibson, he felt a pang of regret that he and Ben hadn’t made it to the iconic gathering that was Woodstock. They’d intended to, had even mapped out the trip from Ottawa to Max Yasgur’s six-hundred-acre dairy farm in the Catskills. But when they asked their boss for the time off, the man had told them sure, go ahead—but when you get back, you’ll be unemployed. Deciding to catch the next big festival that came along, they gave up Woodstock for their buck-thirty-an-hour jobs slinging pizza dough. Jesus. Who knew? Hendrix. Cocker. Santana. Goddamn Ten Years After. Nothing remotely like it had happened again. Three
days of peace and music.
Now the scene changed to Hendrix jamming the national anthem.
Watching Jimi do his thing, Ray said, “You know what’d be a great video for in here?”
“What?”
“Queen doing, “Another One Bites the Dust”.”
Ben said, “Asshole,” and Ray managed a weak chuckle.
Squeezing Ben’s hand now, Ray said, “There’s no going back, is there, amigo.”
“No, there sure as hell isn’t. And I’m not sure I would if I could.”
“Probably just fuck it up all over again.”
“Guaranteed.”
Ray glanced again at Hendrix, the soulful wail of the man’s guitar making his skin tingle. Now his eyes were on Ben, watching with curiosity as he slid a homemade DVD into the video console in the bedframe.
“What’s that?” he said, stoned now, his speech beginning to slur.
Ben smiled. “Bootleg. The video quality sucks, but trust me, you’re gonna love it. After we talked about what was the coolest thing we’d ever done together, I remembered having this. I got it from a roadie maybe twenty-five years ago, then forgot I had it.”
Fading fast now, Ray said, “Roadie for who?” just as Robert Plant appeared on the screen in grainy black-and-white, John Bonham thundering behind him, the band exploding into “Communication Breakdown.”
“Zeppelin,” Ray said. “God, look how young they are there.” Now his head came off the pillow. “Wait. Is that…?”
Ben laughed. “Damn straight it is. Civic Center, April seventeenth, nineteen-seventy.”
“Holy shit. That was the night we saw them. How did you get this?”
“Roadie, like I said. I got sentimental one night and started cruising the Internet for audio bootlegs, thinking how cool it’d be to hear that concert again. But this guy did us one better and videotaped it on thirty-five millimeter. Parts of it, anyway. That’s how he got these great side-stage shots. Sucker was right there.”
“Holy shit.”
“You said that already.”
“Well, it needed to be said again. The tickets were four bucks, remember?”
“Four-fifty at the door.” Pointing at the screen now, Ben said, “All right, you need to pay attention. Right…here.”
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